the beginnings of a half man leviticus AU I've been working on -- I took some liberties with the Deliverance Healer character/ritual, and the half man timeline, so I hope you'll forgive me LOL. This AU has been eating at me for weeks!!! It's been ages since I've written anything so not sure if/when I'll get around to finishing this, but it's just been fun having new blorbos and new torment nexuses to put them in <3
Niallās certain he must have the wrong address when he arrives. It isnāt a church or a monastery, or anything to suggest it contains the transformational power the ad boasted about online. Instead he stands in front of a modest, unassuming family home in a middle class neighbourhood, packed tight to the other homes so at least the neighbours might hear him if he screams.
Nearly every time he blinks, he sees the look on Joannaās face when he had asked her for the blackmail money ā Two grand? Iāve got three children to take care of, Niall ā the pinch in her brow when she told him not to visit anymore. That he needs to straighten himself out.
Admittedly, he may have taken her too literally on that one, but the phrase had lodged its way into his brain and wouldnāt let him sleep. The root of most of his problems is this revolting habit of fucking nameless men, thatās how he got into this mess in the first place, so it stands to reason that cutting out the rot would only do him good. When he found the forum posting about this so-called Deliverance Healer, it felt like divine intervention ā finally, a way out. A free treatment that promises to turn one away from the life of sin that theyāre trapped in, bring stray lambs back into line. A touch more Catholic than Niall would have liked, but beggars canāt be choosers.
He double, then triple, checks the crumpled paper in his hand with the address hastily scribbled down, and once he is confident heās at the right place he walks around to the back door like they had told him to. The sliding door stands open, eerily inviting, and the early evening sun reflects off the glass and doesnāt let him see inside until heās nearly crossing the threshold. The walls are dark wood, surfaces draped in doilies and a layer of dust. He notices the temperature drop considerably once heās inside.
āNiall, is it?ā a voice comes from behind him, and when he jumps at the noise he catches a figure out of the corner of his eye. An old white man with a halo of silver hair and a well-kept beard leans casually in the shadows, reaching to shut the door with a decisive thud. Heās dressed in a loose black suit, imposing silver rings on each hand. A chill runs down Niallās spine ā he hadnāt given his real name, or any name now that he thinks of it. The ad had promised discretion.
When Niall says nothing, the man āthe Healer, he presumes ā chuckles, stepping out of the shadows to the centre of the room. Niallās eyes track his movements, wonders if the door locked when he closed it. This was a royally stupid idea ā agreeing to meet up with strangers from the internet, telling no one where he is. If he went missing, would anyone bother to look?
āThereās nothing to be afraid of, Niall,ā the man continues. āYouāre doing the right thing here. I want to help you.ā He shrugs his jacket off and drapes it over the arm of a plastic-covered armchair, paisley upholstery pristine underneath. Starts rolling up his shirtsleeves, revealing an inky patchwork of tattoos covering both forearms.
Niall swallows, takes a step back. āSo how does this work? You show me some pictures, hypnotize me or something like that?ā
The man smiles. āSomething like that.ā He looks off over Niallās shoulder and nods imperceptibly, and in a flash Niall feels two sets of strong hands forcing him to his knees, two men seemingly appearing out of thin air behind him. They hold him there firmly when he tries to flail out of their grip. āEasy there, Niall, weāre not going to hurt you.ā
āBullshit, get your hands off me āā
Why donāt we talk about what brings you here today?
Niall freezes, shocked into stillness ā the voice sounded like it had come from within his own head. The panic he had been feeling subsides, retreats to the back of his consciousness. When his eyes meet the Healerās he feels almost in a trance.
Youāve been awfully busy, havenāt you Niall?
He hears another voice distantly, and is halfway through speaking before he realizes itās his own. āIām sick,ā he hears himself cry, the Healerās voice encouraging him in his mind. āIām wasting my life away writing shit books and cruising public toilets, and Iām being blackmailed because I canāt stop.ā
āOf course I fucking do, nothing goodās ever come of it,ā he snarls, almost unconsciously, like heās watching someone else puppet his body, his throat. āI-Iāve felt things, wanted things that I shouldnāt and itās ruined my fucking life.ā His heart is racing and thereās a pressure behind his eyes, but he canāt stop talking. The two goons have released him now and fallen in beside the Healer, handing him a pewter goblet, liquid sloshing over the rim. Niall makes no move to escape.
āI ruined my brotherās life too. Sent him to prison instead of damning the only boy Iāve ever kissed,ā his voice catches on the last word, tries to swallow around it. āAnd Iāve driven myself crazy over the whole thing.ā
The Healer never breaks eye contact, but his lips are moving in a near-silent invocation as he walks forward to Niall, tilting his head up by the chin and letting the liquid run into his mouth. Niallās still talking, confessing every discretion, and some liquid dribbles down his chin. Itās cool and tangy on his tongue, sticky on his skin.
Once he swallows, everything stops.
He draws in a sharp breath and feels his body release, like he had been holding every muscle in tension. The room is silent, none of the four men saying a word.
Itās almost peaceful until Niall starts seizing.
He crashes to the floor in a frantic twitching heap, limbs curling in and back arching up like something was trying to burst through his skin. His vision blurs, seeing little more than smears of light and movement. He chokes on his own saliva and mucous, foaming at the mouth. His head is thrown back against the floor, knocking loudly on the wooden boards, once, twice. The last thing he sees is the Healerās sallow face hovering above him, a black miasma swirling around his head ā and then dark.
When he comes to, sweaty and adrenaline-high on the floor, thereās a scratchy throw pillow under his cheek. He sits up fast, earning a painful throb behind his eyes, scrambling to his feet quick and graceless, and nearly falls back down when he finds the only other person in the room ā a portly old woman in one of the wing-backed paisley armchairs, scratching at a sudoku book in the lamplight.
She hardly reacts to him, but looks at him over her half-moon wire frames. āWas wondering when youād be getting up,ā she says conversationally. āIt really varies with some of these folks, never know what to expect. Cup of tea?ā
Niall stands in paralyzed silence, every nerve ending still on edge, mistrusting of every shadow and dark corner.
āYouāre welcome to stay as long as you need, it can take an awful toll on the body,ā she continues, unperturbed. She stands and smooths her skirt with two veiny hands, shuffles over to pat one on Niallās arm. āJust remember, you did the right thing, coming here. No one is ever beyond saving.ā
Thereās an earnestness in her eyes that startles Niall, a gentle kindness he isnāt accustomed to. A motherly comfort he leans into despite himself.
He still says nothing, listens to her uneven footsteps go towards the kitchen, hears the faucet running to fill the kettle. Waits a beat more before sneaking out through the back garden, consumed by a sudden need to be anywhere other than that fucking house.
He doesnāt know how long he's been there, but the sun has set, and an evening chill bites through Niallās ratty jumper, his breath coming in frantic translucent puffs. The sole of his left shoe flaps with every step, part of it worn clean through the rubber. Heās nearly two blocks away before he realizes his walletās gone ā either left behind, or stolen by that creepy old fuck, and thereās no chance in hell heās going back to check. Not that he had much in there anyway. The whole thingās probably just some ploy to lure gullible fucks like him, drug them, rob them, and leave them in some grannyās back room.
He doesnāt think of the way the Healerās voice seemed to seep into his brain, gutting him from the inside out. He doesnāt think of the things he confessed, or the Healerās whispered chanting, the whirling black smoke around his head. He can feel the weight of the experience like a hammer hanging over his head, knows that if he stops to think for too long it will fall.
Niallās twitchy and reactive in the dark, suspicious of every noise, eyes flicking to every hint of movement in his periphery. Half-expecting to see the Healer and his goons at any moment, hear his voice in his head. The street is quiet and vacant, punctuated by pools of amber lamplight, untold threats lurking in the shadows.
Almost begrudgingly, he considers if he feels any different ā pictures naked women to see if they pique his interest, pictures naked men to see if they donāt. Unsurprisingly, nothingās changed at all. Heās almost embarrassed by how much the disappointment stings.
The bubbling anxiety tears out of him then and he curses himself around a choked sob, considers it more proof that he is broken in a way that can never be mended. Heās lucky all this so-called Healer did was steal his wallet, he could have wound up dead in the back of that house. Part of him wishes he had ā take him out of his bastard misery.
Niall frantically, obsessively checks his surroundings and blind spots, never slowing as he winds through the neighbourhood streets, kicking himself for not driving in the first place. Itās a familiar, thudding panic, starting in his fingers and crawling up his arms, every sense on high alert. His eyes are darting so quickly that as heās about to turn another corner, he almost misses the silhouette of a distant figure behind him approaching the streetlight until ā
His breath hitches, and now Niall knows he was dosed with something. Must be suffering some hallucinogenic aftereffect, some post-traumatic psychosis, because thereās no possible way that there, at the end of the road, haloed by incandescent light, he sees Ruben Pallister.
For one infinite moment, Niall is entirely still. Doesnāt even breathe, a prey trying to shake its predator. His mind is reeling a mile a minute āit canāt be Ruben āheās still inside ā heās not real ā Iām just high on some evangelist bullshit, whatever mind tricks the fucker played on me ā fuck, what if it is him and heās got his prison mates waiting to jump me āand his heart threatens to tear out of his chest. Blood rushes in his ears, his head heavy. All Ruben does is stand there, and look.
The next moment, Niallās running ā turns his back on Canāt-Be-Ruben, huffing and panting, can feel the pavement chewing into the bottom of his foot, the slap of plastic against concrete. He doesnāt spare a second of momentum to look back until heās out of the residential area and onto a busier thoroughfare, not crowded, but enough witnesses that he feels out of immediate danger. He can feel people side-eyeing him as he stumbles by, shaking and twitching, but he sees no sign of Ruben anywhere. Takes a deep, rattling breath. Is no more convinced of his safety than he has been since the trial.
Despite the bone-deep exhaustion he feels, he knows the adrenaline and cortisol racing through his veins would make sleep an impossibility, so he decides against turning up the hill towards his lonely, drafty bedsit. The last thing he needs is to be alone with his thoughts right now, if his grasp on reality can even be trusted. Almost in a trance, his feet drag his body towards a seedy, industrial parking lot and the only tried and true way for him to escape himself.
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